Mi Todo

Aqui esta una copia del poema "My Everything" en Español para los que lo quieren ver.

Como te puedo merecer, mi Rey?

Tu, mi Dios, mi todo

Me dicen "No fuiste tan mala

Tal vez mentiste, tal vez enganiaste

Un poco aqui, un poco alla

Por que vale?  Por que te importa?

No mataste a nadie, nunca fuiste rebelde

Solo, como todos cayiste

Pero tu mi Dios, me entiendes

Veias mi vida desde el primer hilo

(o mas bien principio? es dificil traducir "starting strand")

Veias el vacio que me pusó en sombra

Y la oscuridad que en mi luchó

Un rayo de luz, rompiste mi mundo

Tu mano alcanzó a esta niña

Esperanza tan brillante, tu esperanza tan verdadera

Esperanza que me llamó "Quiero a TI"

No eres demasiado joven, ni tonta, ni loca

Eres mia, te compre, Eres MI hija"

Tu veias mis lagrimas cuando estaba sola

Me llamaste "Ven!"

Con tu alegria tan grande me llenaste

Tu amor rebosa de mi copa

Amor que crezca, se rie, y se extende

Mi pregunta, O Dios, esta no mas

Como yo podia viver antes?

Como odia pensaar que eso fue vida?

Cuando nada valia y todo lucho

Pero me haces completo en cada esquina

En ti, encuentro alegria cuando te sirvo

No puedo merecerte, mi Rey

Tu, mi Dios, Tu eres mi todo

My Everything

How could I deserve You, my King?

You, my God, my everything

So I wasn't so bad that's what they say

Maybe you lied, cheated some days

A little here, a little there

What does it matter? Why do you care?

You didn't kill anyone. You weren't a rebel

Just, like everyone you fell

But You, my God, You understand

You've seen my life from the starting strand

You saw the emptiness that overshadowed

And the darkness that I embattled

A shaft of light, You broke my world

Your hand reaching to this one girl

Hope so bright, You hope so true

Hope that called, "I want YOU.

"Your not too young, nor too stupid or wild

Your mine, I bought you, Your MY child."

You saw my tears when I was alone

You beckoned me to you to come

With your huge joy you filled me up

Your love runs from my cup

Love that swells and laughs and grows

Love that reaches out and flows

My question, Oh God, this one no more

How in the world did I live before?

How could I have that that was life?

When there was nothing worth the strife

But You fulfill in me every crevice

In You, I find my joy in Your service

I could never deserve You, my King.

You, my God, Yourself my everything.

Seven Years

What a rotten day. Nothing had gone right. Someone had drawn a caricature of him, calling him a pothead, and posted it on several bulletin boards. Now his girlfriend was mad and refusing to talk to him. He kicked at a pebble and sent it careening under a car. If he found out who did that, he’d break their windshield – forget that, he’d break their face. His friends were still offish since the brush with the police last week – huh, as if he could call them real friends. He reached his truck in the middle of the high school parking lot and gave the tire a vicious kick. Even his truck was old and rarely started with the first crank. It had been his dad’s before him. He pushed the thought away quickly and opened the door. A flutter of paper caught his eye. Someone had stuck something under his wiper blade. He walked around the truck, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it. It was probably another copy of the caricature. It wasn’t until he was climbing out of the truck in his driveway that he paused to unfold it. His face suddenly went pale. It was Dad’s handwriting.

Marc –

I heard you were going to this school now. I’m glad to see the old truck is still running. But, that’s not why I’m writing.

Marc, you might hate me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But, I’ve changed. I want to try to right the wrongs as best I can. I was so stupid to give you and your mother up for nothing.

If you forgive me, Marcus, write and tell me at this address: 2561 Azalea Trail, West Point, TX 72758

Love, Your Dad, Shawn Cullen

He leaned his head back against the truck and closed his eyes, his heart racing. His hands crumpling the letter into a wad.

“Dad?” It was his own voice, from years ago, high-pitched and childish. He was nine years old and shaking. “Dad? Where are you going?”

Dad didn’t look up from shoving his things into the suitcase. “Ask your mom.” His voice was bitter and filled with barely contained rage.

Marc’s hands were shaking as he grabbed at his father’s coat. “Dad, what’s going on?” He shook him off roughly. Marcus looked to his mother, but she was just looking on with sad, silent eyes.

Desperation took over. Marcus took hold of the suitcase and jerked with all his might, sending it to the floor. The contents scattered across the floor. Quickly he grabbed them and threw them across the room. “Don’t leave, Dad, don’t –“

There was a sudden blow to his mouth and he sat down hard, his lip bleeding. “Leave my stuff be, brat!” Dad roared, furious.

Marcus saw the booted foot lift and tried to dodge, but it hit him in ribs and sent him spinning. He lay there crying and gasping for air and he clutched at his side as his father grabbed his stuff and walked out.

Seven years. Seven years of silence, anger, pain. Seven years of hatred. Marcus was sixteen now, with a criminal record full of drug-related offenses. Sixteen with his wrists scarred from cutting. Suddenly Marcus whirled and jumped back into the truck. The engine gunned on the third try and he backed quickly out of the driveway.

The town was three hours away, but he seemed to arrive in no time at all. He pulled up in front of a row of duplexes. Jumping out, he ran, stumbling, to the door marked 2561. He knocked and waited, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, resting his chin on his chest. His blonde hair curtained his face. The door opened slowly, “Marc?”

Marcus didn’t move.

“Marc, does your mother know you’re here?”

“What do you think?” His tone was sarcastic. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Dad? Why didn’t you care?”

His Dad looked a little taken aback. He had been prepared for questions on why he left, but not this. “Marc –“

“Was I not important to you at all? I’ve struggled with drugs, cutting, even suicide. Now I’m asking, Dad, did you care?” As he finished, he finally looked up to see tears flowing down his father’s face.

His father reached out and wrapped his arms around him. “I’ve not done right by you, but now I’ve found a Father in heaven that you need more than you need me.”

You Are in America Now

“Seven fifty is your change. Thank you, ma’am.” The cashier says in a slightly bored tone, dropping the change into my palm. I grab the pack of beef jerky and turn to leave the convenience store, but a sign catches my eye and I pause. You are in America now. Speak English it reads. Above the words is a picture of Old Glory waving proudly. For an instant I imagine my friend Elisabet reading the sign. She has been here for six years and still struggles to understand the simplest English. She tries -- she tries hard, but almost all of the people she knows are Salvadorian like her, so she has little chance to practice. I wish I could say in a near-quote of Charles Dickens: Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you know who the Hispanics are and where they are.

I’m not Hispanic. But sometimes I feel like I am. I work in a Hispanic restaurant, eat their food, and speak Spanish all day, four days a week. I don’t know how many times the people there have asked me in Spanish where I’m from; I guess they can’t pinpoint my accent. “I’m American.” I tell them in Spanish, “Born in Texas.”

They look at me in surprise, “But your parents are from Mexico or Honduras or something, right?”

“No, they are from here in Arkansas.”

“What? You mean they’re white?”

“Well… Yeah.” I say, not exactly sure of the term.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“I studied it from books, from a teacher, and over the internet.”

It never fails to completely blow them away that I learned Spanish so well, even though I technically have no connection with anyone or anything south of the border. One question is always in their faces, though they rarely ask it: “Why did you care enough to learn good Spanish?”

In their minds white people in Arkansas are the ones who put up signs that say You are in America now. Speak English. White people are the policemen who don’t care enough to work bilingually, the nurse who has to communicate through the six year old, and the teacher who can’t tell them about their child’s education needs. But, the ones who have been to the restaurant several times and watched me, sometimes comment about something else. “You always start in Spanish, even if the person is very likely to know English as well as Spanish. If English is the language you are fluent in, why don’t you speak that?”

I usually just shrug and say, “I like Spanish.” But there is a whole lot more to my reason than that. I do it because I watch the people that come in. I see their homesickness for El Salvador or Mexico or Honduras or wherever. I watch them run a finger over the map of Central America, buy a calling card and call family back home, stare longingly at the Salvadorian Flag on the wall. I hear them talking quietly in Spanish about Abuelita back home who made wonderful Atol de Elote and Tio Carlos that raised the tallest Maiz. How could I mess that up by making them speak English to me? I’d rather struggle in Spanish than make them struggle in English in the one oasis they have of home. Everyone has a right to create a piece of home. I used to frequent American Restaurants overseas, now I watch the Salvadorians frequent their Salvadorian Restaurant here. It’s a piece of home that connects them with the family they left behind.

Besides, shouldn’t we be telling them You are in America now, so feel free to speak any language you want? After all, most of my ancestors were immigrants. We can’t turn around and say “Well, my great-grandparents were fine if they wanted to speak German, but you and your Spanish can take a hike back to Mexico.” That would be completely dumb.

I love the people who come into the restaurant. I love it when they think I’m one of them. I love it when they know I’m not Hispanic and still include me as part of the happy group. I love hearing tales of El Salvador and the life they hope to make here. I mourn with them when they tell me of family they left behind, friends that were deported, relatives caught in gang life, or neighbors who are mistreated at work. So, convenience store owner, try learning Spanish – then you’ll see America.

Bilingual

I wrote this for Faithwriters.com competition. The topic was "Face to Face Conversation". I place second in the intermediate division.

The windshield wipers flicked back and forth, back and forth in front of Justin’s eyes as he peered into small area illuminated by the headlights. Swaying branches caught the light and glistened for a moment, then swept by and faded back into the darkness. The raindrops appeared on the windshield, blurring his vision, then were scraped aside, just to reappear again immediately. “It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.” Justin muttered, breaking the drumming silence.

There was no one in the car to answer him. He thumped the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, irritation plain in his face. He was usually so mild mannered; but now, alone, his frustration boiled out. “Why do I have to be different?” An intersection loomed out of the rain and he braked at a red light and leaned his forehead against the back of his hand on the steering wheel. Glancing again at the light, he reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see his own troubled eyes staring back at him. Straight, black hair hung down across his forehead. His facial features and coloring were completely Native Mexican – wide face, high cheekbones and large flat nose. The light turned green. He sighed and pulled forward, shoving the mirror back to its correct angle.

It had started in Political Science class at the university. A civil discussion of current topics had turned ugly. “Well, here is a fence jumper right here I guess.” A girl across the aisle said suddenly, gesturing at Justin.

“I am not. I was born in this country, same as you.” Justin answered quickly, “I just think we need to see things from their point of view.”

“Why don’t you sound like you’re from this country then?” She asked.

It was true that Justin had picked up the accent from his parents. He had lived in a Hispanic community where English was an exception rather than normal until he was twelve, and the Spanish Accent still haunted him. The girl laughed and nodded triumphantly, as he struggled for an answer. “Uh-huh. What? You grew up in migrant worker fields? Your parents were illegal? Now you’re mooching off our education system and you can’t even speak English right? Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes, fluently.”

“So where is your fluent English? You aren’t American. In my book, anyone who speaks Spanish is unpatriotic. Our language is being threatened and you’re one of the people threatening it.”

It still made him nearly shake with anger. Why did he have to be so utterly Mexican in his looks? His family was of straight Chiapas stock – full blood native. And Bilingual in a completely white, rural area.

Suddenly into his headlights flashed a person, standing in the road. It was a boy, dressed in dark clothing, with a hood over his face, shoulders hunched against the rain, hands in his pockets. Justin barely had time to register the image in his brain before he had swerved around it and hit the brakes, skidding on the wet pavement. The car jerked to a final stop and he opened his door, “Hey! What are you trying to do, commit suicide? Get out of the road!”

The boy was standing there, motionless, his sweatshirt and jeans soaked through and clinging to his skin. Justin climbed out of the car and took a couple steps toward him, “Hey, are you ok?”

“Sick.” The voice was a hoarse rasp, thickly accented, and barely above a whisper. The boy reached a shaking hand up and pulled back his hood, rain ran down his face and dripped from his lips, chin, and hair. He touched his forehead, “Sick. Hot.”

Justin stepped closer, but the boy drew back, fearful. “¿Hablas Español?” Justin asked. “You speak Spanish?”

The boy jumped and looked at him again. “You’re Mexican?” He asked in Spanish.

“My family is originally of Chiapas.” Justin answered in the same language.

Relief flooded the boy’s face, “I should have known! How good to see an honest Mexican face again! I was working on a farm several miles away, but I got sick and they made me leave. But, God sent me someone who could understand.”

“I’m Justin,” He answered, giving the softer Spanish pronunciation of the name – the pronunciation he had dropped when he came to college. With it came a host of memories of home – the Spanglish jokes, the old Mexican love songs on the radio. “And I’m glad I found you.”

Isabel's Letter

The shack was cold and dark. A mouse scuttled across the floor, its claws clicking on the rough boards. Enrique shivered and sat up. The even breathing of the other four men sleeping in the room was not disturbed. Enrique reached for his shoes and crept softly out the door. A chilling wind was blowing up the hillside into his face. Grey clouds raced across the bright moon. It wasn’t quite full, he decided. He sat on the doorstep and pulled on his shoes. Leaning forward, he blew on his hands. His breath fogging white as the wind whipped it away from his mouth. As he took his hands away from his mouth his eye fell on the white scar that adorned his brown wrist. He remembered well how he had struggled to untangle himself from the barbed wire cow fence as the border guard laughed. He had been younger then, only sixteen, young and angry. He had screamed at the border guard in Spanish and tried to punch him as soon as he was free. It had taken two other guards to subdue him. Only when he was in handcuffs did he notice the blood flowing where the barbed wire had torn his skin.

He had come back in two months. The border guard had probably known he would. And here he was, four years later, tanned by the hot sun in the agriculture fields and mellowed by hard work. His hands were rough and calloused from holding the farming tools. His voice had a hard rasp to it after the accident of breathing the pesticide. For days it had not been clear if he would live as he fought to pull his breath past all the allergic reaction and swelling in his throat.

He reached into his shirt and slowly pulled out an envelope postmarked in Mexico. He held it in his hands, staring into the distance. But he saw none of the darkness and tossing trees, no it was bright and hot day in Aguascalientes. The day before he left to come across the wire again, Isabel’s slender form was framed against the window, looking out. “You’ll write me soon, Enrique?” She asked, not turning.

“As soon as I have the money, I’ll write to you.” He had answered. “And send the ring.”

Her soft laugh was musical in his ears. “Don’t forget that.”

He stepped close to her and touched her cheek lightly. “Of course not.”

Now he held her reply in his hand as the wind tumbled a flock of dry leaves past him and made his teeth chatter. He slipped his finger under the tab and loosened it. His letter had been so full of apologies. The housing was mouse infested, the weather was cold, jobs were sometimes few and far between, and the men he worked with were coarse in their ways. What if his description had scared her? He couldn’t bear to look at it. He took a deep breath and tilted the envelope, but only a picture fell into his hand. Isabel’s dark eyes smiled up at him. He turned it over and held it up to read the writing in the light of the moon. One word. “Yes.”

The Panhandler

Another story for Faithwriters. The topic was "Discern".

A slight drizzle was falling as Jim hurried down the street next to the wharf, pulling his ball cap low over his face and hunching his shoulders to ward off the drops. He had worked late and was tired. In this area of downtown Seattle there were usually a fair number of people walking along the harbor and watching the sunset; but now, in the rain, only a few scattered people were out to look at the water. “Hey, spare some change?”

Jim turned to see a man on a bench next to him. He was young – probably in his teens – but prematurely aged. His face was thin and his cheek bones jutted out sharply. Dark strands of wet hair slicked down across his forehead and stood out starkly against his extremely pale face. His eyes were dark and menacing, gazing at Jim with a wild, hungry light. His clothes were dirty and ragged, hanging loosely on his bony frame.

Jim shook his head and hurried on. The teen stood up and stepped after him. “Come on, man. You can spare a little change for a hungry man.”

“No.” Jim said, speeding up.

The youth stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Why not?” His voice was flat, hardly making a question.

Jim shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you.”

The teen stopped, “No. You don’t. But I know why not, and you’re wrong.”

Jim shrugged and pushed past him to continue on his way. Behind him, the boy’s shoulders sagged dejectedly and he collapsed back on the bench.

Jim reached the corner and got on a warm, dry bus. He rode the bus to a warm, dry house. The boy remained on the corner, staring with angry eyes at the stream of cars going past, each with its wipers sliding back and forth, back and forth. At last he got up and sauntered away into the damp darkness.